Chapter Three #2
“How many times must I tell you, girl? My preferred poultice for infected wounds uses a pinch of ground marrow of mammoth. What is this you’re using instead?
” Osain takes a sniff from the jar of salve I’ve just finished bottling, and grimaces in distaste.
“Plain comfrey? Marigold? Have you no respect for the wisdom of your elders?”
I bite back a retort. “My apologies, Osain. But in my experience, yarrow leaves are far more effective than marrow dust—”
“Your experience? Bah! If we relied only on your experience, we’d have no patients left. They’d all be ash on the pyre.”
I press my lips together.
Muttering something about my general incompetence under his breath, the ancient healer hobbles away down the row of cots.
He leans heavily on his cane as he goes, his arthritic fingers gnarled into a claw as they grip the handle.
His spine is the shape of a crescent moon, a pronounced hunch rounding his shoulder blades.
Osain has been stitching wounds since well before I walked this earth—as he frequently reminds me—and was an active practitioner for decades before finally being forced into retirement several seasons back. When the city fell, he was all too willing to answer the call for aid.
He was altogether less willing to accept mine.
No matter how many fevers I ease, bones I set, brows I wipe, infections I lance, cuts I bandage…
the old man seems ill-inclined to permit me into the lofty ranks of the Life Guild with any sort of grace.
Left to his own judgment, he would have turned me away that first day I appeared at their makeshift field hospital and offered my healing services.
I was no apprentice. Besides, I am a woman.
Suited for midwifery, in his eyes, but not the stomach-turning business of surgery.
It was Lestyn, with his quick wit, owlish glasses, and lopsided smile, who pointed out that they had more patients than sets of hands, many of whom would need weeks of treatment.
It was Lestyn, with his quiet fortitude, who reminded his aged master that, in the years since he last touched his scalpels, the profession had evolved to accept female novitiates—many of whom were well on their way to becoming accomplished healers when the hospital roof crushed those dreams to dust.
Osain had little choice but to accept this—accept me—however begrudgingly. But old prejudices are more stubborn than whooping cough. He has not warmed to me in the slightest, and I highly doubt anything I do will change that.
While Lestyn is far more welcoming, he is only a novitiate, in many ways still learning his craft, honing his skills.
He defers to his elder in all matters. Osain’s word is law.
Yet on the nights we find ourselves working without a hawkish, age-clouded gaze fixed upon us, I’ve found him to be a quick study, eager to learn my different methods and happy to listen whenever I have advice to dispense.
Most boys of thirteen are likely more concerned with courting pretty girls or practicing at the sparring pits.
Not Lestyn. If he is not actively treating a patient, I’ll find him in a quiet corner with a book, glasses sliding slowly down the bridge of his nose as he soaks in knowledge from the pages like a sponge.
When he heard of the apothecary’s well-stocked shelves, he begged an invitation to my apartments.
Now he is a near-constant visitor, ringing my bell at all hours, pounding down my door if I do not answer within the span of a breath.
He bursts inside, uncoordinated as a newborn colt, his gangly limbs sweeping bottles off surfaces, his elbows knocking against doorframes and table corners, disturbing my peace and quiet.
In truth, I do not mind the disruption, however I might protest when he shows up unannounced, his face split by an unapologetic grin, his hands clutching the latest book he’s conquered.
For I have been undeniably lonely of late.
With Carys still consumed by grief, Jac and Cadogan off to secure the borderlands, Mabon leading the capital’s perimeter guard, and Penn thoroughly withdrawn in his own affairs, I have only Farley for companionship.
And even he will soon be too busy for me, now that he is well enough to rejoin the Ember Guild ranks.
His nights will be spent on patrol, not sitting in my parlor playing hands of twyllo, the tricky game of cards and wagers favored by Northlanders.
A shame, as I’m finally getting skilled enough to win a few hands.
The day creeps on, hours sliding by in a blur of treatments and tidying.
Lestyn catches my eye across the table where I am busy grinding herbs and boiling rags for fresh bandages.
I lift one finger to my lips and wink as I tip a vial of rose-hip oil into the vat—an addition Osain would no doubt frown upon, purist that he is.
It’s a trick from the Midlands, one my old mentor Eli taught me.
Infusing the bandages aids healing; it keeps air-starved skin healthy and hydrated upon removal.
I’m willing to risk a tongue-lashing from Osain if it means my patients recover faster.
Lestyn’s answering grin is a flash of white in the dim room.
Good lad. He will keep my secrets.
I grab the stirring stick and turn the bandages within the barrel-sized pot.
Steam off the surface rises into my face, much like the persistent fog that presses against the infirmary windows.
The strange weather has not yet broken, and the city is on edge because of it.
Folks cast uneasy looks at the sky, muttering about ill omens.
Each morning, as I move through the misty streets, I see more carts piled high with belongings, more Caelderans fleeing to far-flung reaches of the kingdom.
They are bundled in their winter cloaks, shivering against the cold.
A strange sight for late spring. But there have been no sun-drenched afternoons to burn off the chill, no balmy evenings to usher in the first sighs of summer.
We are trapped in a constant cycle of dreariness, caught in the grips of incessant cloud cover.
As always, those who spot me are quick to bow their heads in respect.
Some cast the sign of the sacred tetrad in the air—two fingers, held aloft, moving in the shape of a diamond.
I watch their lips form soundless words.
Wind weaver. Light bringer. I watch their grave expressions flicker with hope.
As though I might somehow save them. As though I might do something, anything, to banish the miserable cold and restore the warmth that once suffused their crater city, where traces of the long-dead volcano’s heat linger in the stone even after a thousand years.
I want to stop and tell them the truth. That I am no savior. Not to them. Not to Penn. Not even to myself. But their misery is deep enough without my adding to it. So I merely nod and carry on my way.
Life is simpler in the darkness of the infirmary.
Time slips away. Hunger pangs fade from focus, exhaustion is pushed to the back of the mind.
I cease to exist as me, Rhya, a living being with needs of her own, and become no more than a set of hands.
Mending and mixing, dressing and dosing.
Tending to those in need with no heed to my body’s urgings.
With an apron cinched around my waist and my pale hair plaited out of the way, I am unrecognizable as the Remnant of Air.
It helps, of course, that most of my patients are caught in the throes of fever, too addled to pay much mind to the hands that sponge their burning skin or the fingers that check their racing pulse points.
I may not be able to save the city at large, but I can save them.
One at a time, cot by cot, body by body.
When the door swings open behind me around midday, I look up from the pallet where my latest patient, a boy of ten with a sore throat and swollen glands, is sleeping fitfully.
Blinking to clear my thoughts, I wipe my hands on my apron as I cross to the threshold where a familiar figure stands in silhouette.
“Hello, Teagan,” I say, smiling as I greet my former maid, now faithful friend. But my smile falters when I see she is dressed for travel, her slender form wrapped in a thick cloak, her back strapped with an orderly bundle. “No,” I whisper in disbelief, shaking my head rapidly. “Not you, too.”
She grimaces. “I’ve come to say farewell.”
“You cannot leave!”
“Oh, Rhya, don’t be upset with me.” Closing the distance between us, her damaged hands reach out to find mine.
The long puckered scar on her forearm—a souvenir from a Reaver blade, received during battle—peeks out from beneath her sleeve and snakes down her fingers.
It’s healed well enough but will never fully disappear, nor will she ever regain full function of the stiffened joints.
And yet, the loss of dexterity is nothing compared to everything else that was taken from her that night.
Her profession in the keep, the roof over her head, her sense of security. Above all, her closest friend.
Keda.
I witnessed her death, then avenged it—killed the Reaver who plunged his blade through her heart without blinking. But taking his life was little solace. No vengeance will bring Keda back. Just as no amount of salve or stitching will erase the jagged scar that mars the flesh of Teagan’s arm.
After the battle, she spent several weeks here in the infirmary, under our care. Like many other survivors, her heart needed as much healing as her body. It was a time of great misery and pain for Teagan.
For Lestyn, though, it was love at first sight.
The young novitiate took one look at my beautiful, heartbroken friend and vowed his everlasting devotion.
He cared little that she is old enough to be his mother, hovering around her with the enthusiasm of an adoring puppy—and, thus, providing a source of much-needed amusement for everyone within earshot.
He sulked relentlessly when she was discharged a month ago.
“You must understand,” Teagan urges, blinking back tears. Brown curls escape her kerchief as she shakes her head. “There is nothing left for me here. Nothing but painful memories and broken dreams.”
“But—”
“Please don’t. Don’t ask me to stay. You healed me after…
” Her scarred hand jerks slightly as it clasps mine.
“I owe you so much, I cannot deny you anything. So I hope you will not ask. I hope you will understand when I tell you I need to start over somewhere new. I hope you will wish me well and send me on my way.”
My mouth opens, then shuts without a sound.
I do understand.
Too well, in fact.
Suddenly, I am also blinking back tears. I force my voice to level out as I pull her into an embrace. “Safe travels, my friend, wherever the road may take you.”
“Our paths will cross again,” she whispers back, her own voice choked with emotion. “I am sure of that.”
“Where will you go?”
“There’s a caravan headed north, toward the sea. It won’t be hard to find work at a country inn or a wealthy estate. I can still scrub and fold, even if my hands aren’t as quick as they used to be.”
“It’s cold as bollocks in the north,” a sullen voice interjects. “You’ll hate it.”
Pulling apart, we both turn to find Lestyn glaring at us from the shadows, hands planted on his slim hips, eyes narrowed behind his thick glass spectacles. The copper skin of his cheeks is tinged beet red and, beneath the scowl, it is easy enough to detect the slightest wobble to his lower lip.
“I grew up in a northern province,” Teagan tells him gently. “I know how fierce the winters are. But I appreciate your worry.”
“I’m not worried!” he retorts. “Why should I care what you do? It’s not like you came here to say goodbye to me.”
I cough to cover my amusement at his display of righteous adolescent indignation.
Teagan steps closer to him, stooping a few inches to catch his eyes. “Of course I wanted to say goodbye to you, sweet Lestyn.” She reaches out to cup his flushed cheek; it reddens even further beneath her touch. “I’ll miss you.”
“You—You will?”
“Very much.”
He seems stunned by the news. So much so, he cannot even react as Teagan leans forward to brush her lips against his cheek in a quick kiss. He is still standing there, slack-jawed, when she turns back to me. Her mouth struggles to contain a grin. “Walk me out?”
Nodding, I fall into step beside her. We exit onto the street where a steady stream of carts and horses drift past. Most are headed toward King’s Avenue, the main thoroughfare that cuts through the city center, but a fair few are bound for the barracks, which is serving as the main hub of activity until the palace is restored to its former glory.
I feel many sets of eyes on us as they pass by, but keep my own trained firmly on Teagan.
“Write to me when you settle in?”
“I’ll send so many ravens, you’ll be sick of me,” she promises. “I’ll let you know where I end up, tell you all about my new life. And you can share news of everything here.”
I blink rapidly, trying to hold my emotions in check. They are surging up inside my chest, an unrelenting tide of grief.
How many more losses am I to endure? How many more goodbyes can I utter before my voice breaks completely?
Teagan pulls me into one last embrace. Her mouth at my ear whispers a familiar refrain repeated often by Caelderans before a long parting. “By the warmth of the ember and the light of the flame, may the fire guide your path through the darkness.”
I meet her eyes and, in a strangled voice, murmur, “Goodbye, my friend.”
Standing in front of the infirmary, I watch her cloaked form meld into the street traffic until I lose sight of her. Until she, like the rest, is gone from me. And then, with a heart as heavy as the clouds that press down overhead, I go back inside and get to work.